Crash
by Inkfamy
Summary: The Autobots suffer a massive loss, and a distraught Prowl seeks out Jazz for comfort. Short, fluffy angst.


_**A/N:**_ _I've seen a lot of fics where Jazz goes to Prowl for comfort and I couldn't get the idea of switched roles out of my mind. Some short, angsty fluff. Hope you enjoy._

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" _A hundred decisions made, and every time the greater good, the lesser evil... how could they lead me here?"_

 _\- Half a War, Joe Abercrombe_

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The hallways felt lifeless, even though they were filled with mechs hurrying to shift rotation. Only a few whispered conversations echoed through the _Ark_. No one dared make optic-contact with Prowl. He strode through the crowd as if surrounded by a bubble, crew members scurrying from his path like snow before a plow. Everyone had heard.

Prowl gazed past them all as if they were wraiths. Backstrut rigid he walked like a recruit at inspection, doorwings snapped out and steps neat and clipped. He clenched his denta tightly enough to hurt as, internally, he checked shift rotations – though he practically knew them by spark – as apprehension coiled in his tanks. _What if he wasn't there?_.

The shuffle of moving bodies seemed distant, muffled as if he was listening through a forcefield.

The flow of mechs past him lessened to a trickle as he reached his destination. He raised one servo to the nondescript door to buzz the entry request but it slid open before the motion was halfway done. Stiff as a rod he stepped through and the door hissed closed behind him.

A black and white form rose and Prowl's optics snapped into focus, his dreamlike world coalescing onto that one mech. He started to shake slightly.

"Prowl-" Jazz was walking towards him, concern buzzing from him like static.

And just like that, the bubble shattered and the world came crashing down onto his shoulders. He broke under the weight of it, collapsing like an avalanche. His knees struck the floor hard but before the rest of his frame could follow Jazz was there, crouching with him, servos cupping his faceplate and turning it up towards his own. It seemed as though that touch was all that held him up, the soft buzzing of an EM field against his own the only real feeling in the world.

Prowl's vocal processor croaked out more static than words as he stared blankly into the brilliant visor above him. "Over... 300..."

With a soft _click_ Jazz's helm came to rest against the tactician's proud red chevron. "I know," he murmured softly, seeing bright blue optics begin to dim.

"I sent them there."

There was a shift as the crouching mech took to his knees as well. "I know."

Face twisting with internal agony, Prowl clenched his slack servos into fists, slamming both hard into the floor. " _I calculated the loss projections!_ " Almost a sob. "I knew- I knew the losses and I sent them anyway."

The grip around his helm tightened slightly and he was drawn forward, faceplate guided to rest on the smaller mech's pauldron. He rocked his helm against the proffered armour as if denial could change what they both already knew. Slowly he raised his servos, pressing them, shaking, against the white chestplate before him, feeling the hum of a spark deep beneath the metal. He pushed away from Jazz, forcing his helm from the grip that held it. Dizzily he stared at the blue-white visor before him, sudden anger flaring.

"Why don't you hate me?" he demanded, gritting his denta again. "So many others hate me."

Jazz's dermas turned down at one corner and he lightly tapped one black digit against Prowl's chin, then drew it down his throat cabling and along one clavicle strut.

"Prowler..." he tilted his head forwards slightly, expression softening. "Ya make hard calls – and always the right one. It's the situation that requires that call that mechs hate, and it's easier to lash out at you than the universe."

Before the other mech was finished he was already shaking his head in denial, gripping tight enough on the edges of the chestplate he held to leave dents, but the gentle black servos simply cupped his faceplate again, forcing him to look back into the visor before him. The calmness he saw there made anger flare in his spark.

"And is that what I tell their friends, their families?" he was shouting, sobbing, all sense of control so much dust in the wind. "That I made the call? That I sent them to die like the Unmaker himself and it was a hard call but the right one?"

Jazz's visor dimmed slightly and a thumb stroked down Prowl's cheek. "Easy decisions're for the lower ranks," his voice was soft low. "We officers don't have the luxury."

A sob welled up from somewhere deep inside Prowl's frame and his optics blurred with static.

"It's not fair," he choked, feeling like a new-spark bemoaning recharge time. Another sob. "It's not _fair_ , Jazz."

"I know."

He was drawn forward again and this time pressed his faceplate against Jazz's neck cabling. Arms circled around his back and with surprising strength he was pulled down, the smaller mech lying flat on the floor so that Prowl lay half on top of him. Slow servos rubbed down the joints where his doorwings met his back. He shook his head again, denying the cruelty of the universe and clutched at the mech beneath him like he was drowning.

They lay in silence a long time, until Prowl's shaking sobs faded to tiny hiccups. Digits entwined with his own, black meshing with white, and he felt a small squeeze.

"Without yer calculations and strategy, we'd'a lost prob'ly double what we did," Jazz murmured, thumb tracing circles against the back of the white servo he held.

Prowl stared, hypnotised by the movement, then vented slowly, feeling a distant, calm exhaustion settle into his processor.

A few breems passed while he tried to muster the words and then, "I know..." he whispered, barely audible.

"And if we hadn't'a gone, we'd'a lost a major energon supply."

He nodded slowly, still watching the circling thumb.

"And then we wouldn't'a been able ta provide energon to struggling neutrals."

He nodded again, but the words could only dispel so much of the pain at their losses.

"It's-" his vocal processor crackled slightly and he paused to reset it. "It still feels evil – to send so many to their deaths, even for the greater good."

The circling thumb stopped, and Jazz extracted his servo, placing two digits under Prowl's chin to tilt his helm to meet his visor.

"A lesser evil than hundreds'a non-combatants lost to the attack, and thousands starving as a result," the saboteur said softly.

Prowl shuttered his optics. "It feels more and more like we choose the lesser evil, and less and less the better path."

With a small vent Jazz shook his helm. "Ain't no good paths left, Prowler... just gotta keep choosing the path of the lesser evil, and maybe those evils will get smaller and smaller and one day we'll be on a good road. And until then we need to keep choosing the... smallest evil dirt track... we can... find..."

Prowl couldn't help but cough out a tiny laugh as the gentle voice trailed off. His sorrow still lingered on the edge of his awareness, but somehow Jazz had forced it away by sheer force of personality. "I think you killed that analogy."

Jazz quirked a tiny smile. "It started off really well... all that about roads and paths... real poetic stuff." They both laughed despite themselves, and Jazz tapped a digit against the floor beneath them. "Ya know, this floor ain't seen a cleaner drone this side of a megacycle."

Prowl pushed himself up, recognising an attempt to buoy up his small mood improvement. He found he wanted to play along. No one else could make him feel so... healed.

He narrowed his optics at the still reclined form on the floor. "You know, I'm in charge of the punishment detail... untidy rooms are unacceptable in the military."

Jazz opened and closed his mouth a few times, then pointed threateningly up. "I am an officer!"

"And I am a _superior_ officer," Prowl smiled, batting the offending servo away lightly.

"You- you-" pushing himself onto an elbow, Jazz shook his head. "Did ya just try to pull rank on me? In _my_ room? On _my_ floor?!"

Chuckling the Praxian stood, offering a servo to the grinning mech below him. "You better get up off _your_ floor before you catch some kind of paint-eating disease."

Pulling Jazz to his feet, Prowl lingered over their servos, not letting go straight away. He met Jazz's optics and vented deeply, amusement at their usual banter sliding away for a moment.

"Jazz, I-" he squeezed the servo held in his slightly. "Thank you."

Jazz smiled, returning the squeeze. "Any time, Prowlmeister."

-o0o-

Prowl sat on the berth, sipping at an energon cube absently. Beside him, the warm hum of an EM field meeting his own was a soothing presence. Soft, rhythmic music came from the frame beside him, pushing against the lingering pain of loss in his spark. He vented, earning a glace from Jazz. Here, in this room, everything seemed just slightly better; a small sanctuary from war and responsibility.

Slowly he leaned pauldron-to-pauldron against Jazz, shuttering his optics. Tomorrow he would have to go outside and be an officer, and choose the lesser evil, and bite down his guilt, but here and now there was a tiny, almost perfect bubble of peace.

He unshuttered his optics.

"Jazz?" he murmured.

A "mm?" of acknowledgement came from beside him.

"Don't call me _Prowlmeister_."

There was a quiet snort and he felt an affectionate servo brush gently down his back.

"Whatever ya say, Prowler."

He shuttered his optics again. _Perfect._

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 _ **A/N:**_ _Well, I hope you enjoyed! This is my first foray back into fanfiction in quite a long time, so any constructive crit is more than welcome and reviews of any kind are begged for!_

 _If anyone knows any good Transformer communities (here or on other sites) I'd love if you'd drop me a PM. I'm also looking for someone to chat with about story ideas etc – not a beta but just someone to bounce ideas off (specifically about a couple of PJ fics I'm working on) and have some friendly conversation with, so feel free to PM me if you'd like to chat._


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